January 15, 2005

• The below post whilst true is too depressing esp when I feel on the verge of a breakdown. So here is a new post.

  
  

  Sophie’s Blog
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Web-Page Eight
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Yummy! Fried Mars Bars from the Chippy! Can anything be so scrumptious? Mummy’s American friend couldn’t believe it. Chocolate dripping in fat?
  

  
  

  I love the chippy, I love fish n chips, bangers in batter and mushy peas! But I love best fried Mars Bars. “My fried friends” I call them.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Very windy today. The lady on the corner house had a big tree blown down in her garden. It just missed her conservatory by inches.
  

  
  

  There was a lot of twigs blown about, some fatter than my arms. A chimney pot also blew down, bits of red brick covered in soot lay on the path.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  —
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  I am playing a game.
  

  
  

  It is a game of hope.
  

  
  

  Everyone wishes for it.
  

  
  

  Everyone plays it.
  

  
  

  But it is still only a game.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Hope is something
  

  
  

  that means a lot to me.
  

  
  

  It keeps me happy.
  

  
  

  And it keeps me busy.
  

  
  

  At writing my poetry.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Sophie Lucy Morgan (aged 9)
  

  
  

  —
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  I don’t write about school much in my blog. It’s the boring part of my life. I love learning, I love reading, but too much of school is wasted. We spent a whole term in rehearsing a play, and then some kids forgot their lines. They should have given me a bigger part, the trouble was, by the time a black kid got a good part and a Chinese kid got a good part and a special needs kid got a good part, and teacher’s pet got a good part, there were only daft parts left.
  

  
  

  I played a dancing tree. A dancing tree! I did write a poem about it but the poem was as dull as the part.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  The Head came round and warned us about taking drugs. I think she was having a laugh, we all know she buys her pot from Travis Brown!
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  —
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Sometimes I am a tune.
  

  
  

  I am the music.
  

  
  

  I am not me.
  

  
  

  I am not Sophie.
  

  
  

  I am the violin.
  

  
  

  Or the flute.
  

  
  

  Or dancing with the piano keys.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Yes Elgar,
  

  
  

  I like your classical music.
  

  
  

  Sometimes
  

  
  

  when I listen to it,
  

  
  

  I am not me
  

  
  

  I am the music.
  

  
  

  My whole head is the music.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  —
  

  
  

  Sophie Lucy Morgan (aged 9)
  

  
  

  —
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  (Mummy’s Ps: Elgar is not the composer, but the name of Sophie’s friend.)
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  —
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Father was on holiday and we had a different priest, one that did not see people as nice but only as bad. He said gays were twisted and people should hate those people who do not believe in God. Michael’s daddy loved it I bet, but it left me feeling hurt. I do not see Jesus as someone who hates other people because they are different. So this week I did something I had not done before, I refused to go to church. I hate this priest, when is the real Father coming back?
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Elgar’s next door are horrible people, they have a big van-size car, they never speak, always make a lot of noise and the man once put dung through a Paki’s letterbox. That was awful, they were nice people, the Pakis, but they had to move out. I think the man next door is very very cruel and I hate him so much, and that I could never never hurt a Paki.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  —
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  “Save the milk!”
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Mummy says.
  

  
  

  I look at my empty glass
  

  
  

  and the empty bottle…
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  and I cry.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Sophie Lucy Morgan (aged 9)
  

  
  

  —
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  This fly will not leave my room,
  

  
  

  But I can not kill it.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Not after it had shared my biscuit
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  And this poem.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Sophie Lucy Morgan (aged 9)
  

  
  

  —
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  It is very late, but I can’t sleep, I can hear mummy snoring in the next room, but that isn’t why I can’t sleep.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  I can not sleep because I want to write though I daren’t go on the ‘puter if I did, mummy would go mad!
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  So I sit here writing this in my note-book knowinq if this is the best I can write, I’ll be better off sleeping!
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Mummy says that great-grampy is now dust, so I speak to the dust and I ask it what’s it like in heaven, and will they have a McDonalds for poor Mark who got knocked over by a stolen car then died in school?
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  When the ambulance came to our school  for poor Mark, we were all excited.
  

  
  

  But later on that week Mrs Brown, our deputy-head told us to all say a prayer for Mark cos he was dead.
  

  
  

  “A bit late now miss” said Emily, and got into trouble, but she was right, for if we had said a prayer before he died, then maybe Mark will still be here
  

  
  

  picking fights with us all.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  —
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  We went to Father Mclleney’s church today,
  

  
  

  And lit a candle for Mark.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  People were crying.
  

  
  

  It was cold in the church
  

  
  

  And the heating was wonky.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Mark’s big sister said
  

  
  

  That Mark was a nice boy.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  But he wasn’t,
  

  
  

  He used to pull my hair
  

  
  

  And call me names.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  The other Mark is a nice boy,
  

  
  

  But not the one that died.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Sophie Lucy Morgan (aged 9)
  

  
  

  —
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  When Mark died, they showed his picture on the television.
  

  
  

  I was jealous, and I asked Mummy would I be on television if I died?
  

  
  

  Mummy just sighed, and gave me a hug.
  

  
  

  I think she was crying even though there were no tears on Mummy’s face.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  I don’t know what to write, this is terrible, I have a blog and yet nothing exciting is happening. I woke up early, let the cat out the back, watched her go into the church garden, helped mummy with breakfast, read more of a poetry book (Spike Millighan: Collected Poems), got bored with the silliness in it, fell back to sleep, watched a videoed “Heartbeat” with mummy, had lunch, come onto this, commented on the three people who commented on me. That’s all. After this I am going to read Japanese haiku, Mummy insists on knowing where I’ve been on the computer, and won’t allow me a email thingie! But I know she only does it cos she loves me. Bye.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  —
  

  
  

  Sophie Lucy Morgan. Aged Nine.

  
  

   

  
  

  Three_Headed_Sarahs is happish even if it is about the Pearly Gates 

  
  

  The_Clowne_from_Clown site though is more akin to how I feel.

  
  

  and join Tiffy and Toby and send poems to the http://www.jalabelle.com forum
   

  
  

  
  

  • 12:34 am
  • 32 Comments